Dark Poetry
by EeveeNerd
Summary: Willow Jenkins thought she was ready for her first public relations job. Then she saw the costumes, tattoos and giant snakes, and realized her work was cut out for her.


**Author's Note: Hi all! Hope you're all doing well. This is my first fanfiction, though I've been reading for a while, so feel free to offer criticisms or suggestions. This is just a silly idea that came to me when I was bored and the power was out, probably be a couple short chapters. Hope you all enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters. That privilege belongs to the lovely JK Rowling and her creative mind.**

 **Of Strategy and Dark Poetry Enthusiasts**

Willow Jenkins scrutinized her reflection in the mirror. Her already pale complexion was a sickly, pasty white. Her pupils were drawn into slits, blowing up the large hazel irises. She pursed her pale pink lips, and then scowled. Dang it. She looked nervous, and that just wouldn't do. She sighed. "First day, and I'm already on the way to losing this job," she said, tilting her head to rest her forehead on the glass. She twisted the cold water tap and splashed her face. As she towel dried and pulled out her make-up bag, she pondered how to best make herself seem cool, confident, and capable.

It wasn't every day that Willow Jenkins received a prestigious job offer. Her stark resume was testament to her inexperience, the short span of time that she had been out of college. Those interested in a public relations specialist generally wanted someone a little more…well, special. Willow had been an average student, a bit more focused on board game nights and weekday jaunts to the park than homework. It just seemed like such a _shame_ to be inside working on stuffy homework when she could be out and about, enjoying the world. After all, she wanted to work in public relations. Obviously, she should relate with the public. It made her more hip and happenin' with what was "in."

Though maybe she was lacking in that area as well. Her client had requested help with a club that she had never heard of. "I suppose that's why he needs a publicist, idiot," she mumbled, dabbing a light brown shadow onto her eyelids. The man was a lord, it would make sense that he dabbled in more cultured hobbies. It wasn't her fault she wasn't some posh, prep-school graduate. Willow sighed and dropped the shadow back into her bag. She glanced at the mirror one final time, put on her peppiest face, and slipped into her heels. With one last puzzled thought as to how strange the club name Death Eaters was, she hustled out the door. Hell, maybe the guy liked dark poetry.

As her client was a lord, Willow expected him to live in a large estate. She also expected him to be locatable by Google maps. Unfortunately, though her first assumption was correct, her second was very, very wrong. She had tried to follow the directions he had sent over the phone, but still managed to get lost in the empty countryside. Thank God she left an hour early. She breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy iron gates opened. She frowned. "No more sighing. I've done that too much today," she said. Sighing was not a sign of confidence, and she needed to be confident.

She trudged up the long, cobbled walkway, simultaneously thanking God for her cardio workouts and cursing everything else for the heels she'd decided to wear. She lifted her head after stumbling _yet again_ to see an aristocratic blonde man standing on the porch. He watched her approach, and she raised her hand in greeting, plastering a massive, possibly demented smile on her face. It must be him, Lord Something-French. Willow cursed the fact that she had taken Russian in school. She determined to try her best and hope for an interpreter. The English-to-French text she'd picked up was all but useless. She made it up the stairs and took in her host.

The blonde's hair was long and smooth as he swept an errant lock behind his ear. His eyes were sharp, much like those of Willow's Marketing professor when he was on a solid tangent. He kept his hands behind him, neglecting to shake hands in what she presumed was clear, highborn disdain. He dipped his head to acknowledge her. "Miss Jenkins, I presume. I am Lord Malfoy. Follow me, and I will lead you to my Master," he said, turning on his heel to stalk through the door.

Willow swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and walked after him.


End file.
